


only as the day is long

by chandrasekhar



Category: DCU, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, References to Depression, Roy-centric, Self-Esteem Issues, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 05:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13207152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chandrasekhar/pseuds/chandrasekhar
Summary: There are the good, the bad, and the days in between. Slowly, Roy learns to cope.





	only as the day is long

**Author's Note:**

> the title comes from a poem of the same name by Dorianne Laux (and that is quite heartbreaking, if you ask me)
> 
> didn't really think this through; Roy is just the type of character that gives me a lot of feels and punches all the personal buttons, and the idea wouldn't leave me alone, so, here we are
> 
> all mistakes are mine, and english isn't my mother language, so there's that?  
> either way, I hope you enjoy~

 

 

**-**

 

Sometimes, he lays at night awake and listens. Just listens. The sound of the sea and grumblings of tamaranian machinery working. Jason’s snoring. His own heartbeat with a steady thump-thump that reverberates through his body, and the whispering of leaves from animals walking on the woods outside. Inside the ship, he never knows when the morning finally, thankfully, comes.

The city, contrary to the island, is loud. Cars and honks and the clicking of lights turning on and off a few apartments above. A girl outside talking to her boyfriend, music coming off from a bar a few stores down the street. The chirping of the birds when the sun starts to rise, when the light starts shining through the curtains, and Jason’s breathing evens out.

 

 

There are quiet storms. The kind of storm that you don’t really realize it’s going on unless you look outside the window and notice the raindrops sliding down the glass. They’re peaceful storms. The kind that allows Roy’s messy thoughts to calm down, that turn his quietness into enough easiness that when he leans against Jason’s shoulder, settling comfortably, the gentle up and down of his breathing makes his eyelids feel heavy.

There are quiet storms. He sleeps with his face turned to the window, to the strikes of silent lightning outside, and Jason’s hands curled upon his hair.

 

 

Battles are loud. The kind of loud that rings in your eyes for hours after it’s over.

Tamaraneans don’t seem to jump into battle with a war cry. At least Koriand’r doesn’t. But she has a sound of her own, a buzzing of energy hiding just under her skin, the strength of a solar explosion just waiting to be released. She is more powerful than Roy’ll ever be, but she’s his friend, and sometimes this makes him sleep easier at night.

Jason has a sound of his own, too. The sharp, striking of bullets that make Roy almost feel the gunpowder at the back of his throat. The methodical, trained clicking of his hands reloading his guns. He’s sharper, harder, like strength has been pushed into his hands instead of the natural, comfortable way Koriand’r handles hers – but he is fierce, determination coming in waves, and his bang of bullets sometimes sounds like a lullaby.

 

 

If Roy listens closely enough, carefully enough, sometimes, he’ll almost be able to believe that his arrows sing a song of their own when they fly through the air.

 

**-**

 

There are restless nights. Nights in which he can’t hear the rustling of the trees, or Jason, or the clicking of lights, and TV background doesn’t really does it for him. He grips onto his elbows as if it’ll stop him from falling apart, even though he knows it won’t.

Restless nights bring back the smell of alcohol, the bitter taste of liquor going down his throat, his tongue is numb inside his mouth, and his stomach burns.

_ You’re trash _ , is what his mind tells him. And Roy is still aching for a drink.

 

 

There are loud storms. Storms that start with thunders roaring above his head, lightning shining long before the raindrops reach the window. The kind of storm that makes him fidgety and prone to lashing out, scared of speaking in case his temper  _ snaps _ .

Touching – it grounds him. So if this time Jason’s arms close around him and hold him against his chest before Roy even realizes he’s still shaking, he doesn’t comment.

“Go back to sleep, Roy.”

And Roy can’t hear the birds or the hushing of leaves or the clicking of lights, but Jason’s heart beats a steady thump-thump, chest rising and falling with his breathing, and his lips are soft at the corner of his mouth.

So Roy closes his eyes, feeling warm inside, and allows himself this moment of quiet.

 

**-**

 

There are bad nights. Nights of deep, tiresome sleep, that make him wake up exhausted and hurting and unwilling to talk. Unwilling to feel. Nights in which closing his eyes is easy, but the certainty of tomorrow makes his stomach churn.

Bang bang. He can still smell and taste the blood inside his mouth, the pain of going down and down and down, smacked in the face until he’s colored black and blue, skin peppered with bruises, but unable to let go. A rooftop lost somewhere in Hell’s kitchen, bow long gone, arrows dropped to the ground, and nothing but getting up and latching onto the feeble feeling that if he’s going to die anyway, he’d rather die with the same thing that brought him so many things before: fighting.

But he didn’t die, did he?

 

 

There are storms that leave nothing but destruction in their wake. And sometimes, when he curls up against the sand, or the bathroom floor or the balcony, hands rubbing his arms in hopes that it’ll chase the cold away, Roy feels like he’s this kind of storm. Breeding and breeding, time ticking down like he’s a bomb ready to explode.

He destroys and destroys and destroys, and people leave, because what are they supposed to do? He’s tired. Picking up the pieces only goes so far before you shatter again, before you hurt yourself and break skin trying to put everything back together, before the shards become so tiny, there’s nothing to come home to.

If home is where the heart is and your heart is in yourself, he has nowhere else to go.

 

 

“Tired?”

“Can’t sleep.”

Jason hums in agreement. His arm is careful, slow, dropping over Roy’s shoulder like a blanket, and Roy revels in the warm skin, still trembling, trembling, his fingertips numb.

“Can I stay?”

If only just a bit, the pressure in his chest eases. The words clog up in his throat, in a lump that won’t leave for hours, a myriad of things he may never be really able to say.

But for now, it’s enough.

“Yeah. Yeah, Jaybird, you can stay.”


End file.
